


Strilonde Somnophilia Hypnomobius Double-Simultaneous Reacharound

by Psythe



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Ambiguously Canon-Adjacent Setting, Background Poly, Dream Selves (Homestuck), Dream Sex, Ectobiological Incest (Homestuck), Erotic Hypnosis, F/M, Hypnotism, Mildly Dubious Consent, Somnophilia, consensual hypnosis
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-13
Updated: 2020-04-13
Packaged: 2021-02-28 20:09:03
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,508
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23272996
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Psythe/pseuds/Psythe
Summary: Getting Dave Strider to top Rose Lalonde is an inherently ridiculous and unlikely scenario. Bringing it about requires an equally ridiculous and unlikely solution.Rose, of course, is equal to the challenge, and her plan is flawlessly conceived.In the execution, though, she misplaces one little detail of semantic linguistics - but, really, who can even keep these things straight when you and all your friends consist of multiple consciousnesses asleep and awake in various realms at different times? Anyone could be forgiven for forgetting precisely what the word 'awake' means at any given moment, right?
Relationships: Rose Lalonde/Dave Strider
Comments: 2
Kudos: 34





	Strilonde Somnophilia Hypnomobius Double-Simultaneous Reacharound

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Laurasauras](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Laurasauras/gifts).



> Happy birthday, Laura. And happy 4/13!!
> 
> You might recall that this concept was dreamed up ages ago, I think in the rarepair discord in a conversation involving you, me, and @szgrey, if memory serves. It's kind of a mix of both of our interests, but I hope you enjoy it. You wouldn't know it from how much I dragged my Goddamn feet on finishing this, but it was a lot of fun to write. (I'm so sorry that it took so long.)

**Rose: Switch.**

You’re _working_ on it.

But your partner _really_ has not made it easy. He never makes anything easy, of course - he had to be practically _towed_ into initiating a relationship with you in the first place, no matter how self-evidently the both of you desperately wanted it. Even _more_ effort was reportedly required on the part of everyone involved getting him together with his boyfriend, his connection with whom was already functionally like that of Siamese twins and had been for _years._ And even though the two of you have gone over it on at least five distinct occasions and he made it quite clear that he did not actually object to any element of what you’re doing here, it has still taken you _months_ to build him up to agreeing to it, and even _longer_ to get him to actually follow through.

(Your unfortunate personal wealth of experiential evidence to the fact that this kind of anxiety-ridden avoidance most certainly runs in the family really doesn’t make it any less frustrating.)

But you’re here, you’re doing this, you’re making it hapen, as they say, and - no. No, no - hold up, Lalonde, you tell yourself. Let’s not involve Sweet Bro and Hella Jeff with your sex life any more than might be _absolutely_ necessary, in some purely hypothetical _unspeakably_ dark alternate world-line that is _not this one._ This is the world-line where you have Dave here, with you, on the bed, and you have the pendant, and you’re _finally_ going to get what you want.

“Did I actually let you talk me into this?” he’s saying.

You _sigh._ “You did, yes, and I am not having you back out on me now. We agreed.”

Then you start to second-guess. “I mean, you can always-”

“No, yeah,” he waves his hands in front of his face frantically, “it’s cool, and I for real appreciate it, it’s just. Y’know,” He takes a breath. “A lot,”

“...it is ... _kind_ of a lot,” you say. “I will grudgingly admit.”

“Yeah, like, might be good to take a second, before we start. T’appreciate how Much, as they say, this is.” He’s rocking back and forth minutely on his knees, nervous energy vibrating in his bones. “This is the role I like to play, historically, y’know? Keepin’ us _grounded_ . I feel like consistent reminders of how utterly fucking deranged and excessively convoluted everything about our lives is, at all times, every day, is really good for our mental health? Especially yours in particular,” he refocuses his attention on you, “No one should ever let you think that your baseline calibration for anything, _especially_ sex, is anything even approaching normal.”

You love him, but you’re running low on patience. “We wouldn’t need to do any of this Calibrating if you weren’t such a bottom.” 

Dave makes an incoherent sort of objection sound, the ectobiological offspring of a yelp and a gasp, and you climb forward onto the bed beside him to press your advantage while he’s on the back foot. This is something you’ve learned with Dave. You have to push him. Not hard, not to make him do things he doesn’t want to do, but towards the things that he does want. He carries the Strilonde family curse in his veins just like all of you; he can know that he wants something and be able to describe it in the most fine and accurate detail imaginable, and know exactly what he’d have to do to get it - and just let it pass him by. It’s hard to tell what he’s afraid of - failure (By what metric?), doing something wrong or hurtful (you’re not that fragile, and you get to decide what hurts you, not him), exposing some part of himself he’s afraid for you to see? (As if knowing him more completely could ever be anything but an absolute joy to you.) A little push, that’s all he needs. You need the same kinds of pushes from time to time (and you’re a lot more stubborn about them). He doesn’t mind the push. Most of the time he’s happy to go along.

Which, of course, is exactly the problem.

* * *

You’re a woman of particular tastes. 

This is true of all manner of things - poetry, music, fabric, video games - and the bedroom is no exception. You’re very happy to take the initiative when it comes to sex, most of the time - you like to be in control - but every now and then you have certain needs.

You don’t think you really would have ever recognized this part of yourself consciously if Kanaya weren’t who and what she is. You’re too proud, you had too much of yourself tied up in the idea of standing strong and alone, of being an independent, self-contained unit that could continue to function without needing anyone. It always seemed like a foregone conclusion that you would be the one in charge of sex.

Kanaya disabused you of that _spectacularly._ Your sweet, doting, endlessly giving wife has a _monster_ inside her, a voracious black hole of a thing that can only be satisfied by seemingly _endless_ session of vigorous, animalistic fucking. You’ve found a balance, now, but when you were first together your fragile, just-barely-pubescent confidence was _no_ match for Kanaya’s mating instincts.

And you _loved_ it. Sometimes at night your toes still curl remembering those first times, when she fucked you all the way to the point of exhaustion (and sat your expectations for sexual experiences to a hilariously excessive standard for a human). It’s not all that often you go that far these days - that kind of primal dominance isn’t really Kanaya’s comfort zone - but sometimes, when you’re in a funk, when you’re thinking too much and it’s tying your brain into an absurd fucking snarled Turk’s-head-knot of stress or anxiety, you like Kanaya to bend you over and just _shut it off._

This is something that you need, and you’ve accepted it.

And the problem, unfortunately, is that Dave can’t give it to you.

You’re pretty sure you _had_ always assumed that Dave was a bottom. Even before you really thought about things in these terms, you think it was always something you understood at a basic level. He just sort of gives off that energy, in a way that humans (and indeed pretty much all life forms more developed than protozoa) can pick up - and you feel like there’s probably at least a _few_ particularly accomplished single-cell organisms that are aware of how much of a bottom Dave Strider is.

But even _then_ you don’t think you were prepared for the extent of it. Dave can’t even _service top._ (The two of you have tried. _Lord,_ have you tried.) And once he understood how important this is to you, he _really_ wanted to do it for you. 

But, apparently he just... doesn’t have it in him. You’ve tried it so many different ways. It’s not his lack of desire for you, you know _that_ much, it is _very easy_ for you to wind up Dave so utterly with hopeless lust that he turns into a desperate mound of malleable noodles - you just can’t get him to direct that lust at you in a way that’s assertive, that results in him taking charge. It’s partly that you don’t buy it - the idea that Dave could ever _take charge_ of you, could tell you what to do, is just… not credible, and you both know it. But there’s also a … mental block, of sorts. There are things he’s not comfortable with doing, ways he’s not comfortable behaving, even if you’re okay with them.

He wants _so badly_ to make you happy, it breaks your _heart_ how much he wants to do this for you, but he can’t get himself there.

So you did what you do best; you hit the books.

* * *

He’s nervous, and you need him calm and focused for the spell to work. 

Fortunately, he’s easy to focus. His eyes lock ever so predictably onto your cleavage from his position lying against the headboard pillows, as you pull your shirt off and drop it onto the bed. “Your eyes are so gorgeous,” you murmur. You cup his face with your hand and brush your thumb across the sheath of freckled skin over his cheekbone. “They look like hot embers fresh out of a fire. Your eyes look like _stars._ Like two red dwarfs lit with the nuclear fire of how much you want me.” You’re so happy that he trusts you with his uncovered face.

His face is glowing only slightly less brightly red. “Are you really writin’ poetry about my irises while in the process of getting naked,”

“Yes, because I’m magnificent. Now shh and look at me.” You apply your fingernail to your bra strap. “And stop making me tell you what to do. It defeats the purpose of this whole endeavor. It’s bad mojo.”

“Did I actually just hear _you_ say ‘bad mojo’? Is that a fucking technical term? Isn’t that, like, the magic equivalent of saying a science thing works because of ‘particles or something’, are you gonna bounce some tachyons off the main deflector dish onto my dick-”

 _“Sh.”_ You place the tip of a finger over his lips, and then settle back into your knees in front of him. “As much as I love being complimented, shh.” Your shrug your bra off and let it crumple onto the sheets. “Just look at me. Look at my breasts, look at my body.” You run your hand over the surface of your chest, your touch slow and sensuous on your skin and on Dave’s eyes. You can see the bulge in his pants straining against the inner fabric. Your ever-sensitive nipples tingle sympathetically. You _love_ the way he looks at you. No other man would get to look at you like this, to see you unshrouded - but on Dave’s face it isn’t coarse lechery. It’s _reverence,_ it’s devotion, it’s _want._ It’s total, frantic, impossible depthless want and you will never tire of being wanted.

And that’s what you’re doing. You’re pulling the stopper on his want, setting it free - and then letting nature take its course. “You love looking at me, don’t you, Dave?”

His head nods up and down shakily. “I could probably just kinda shrivel up and die of dehydration lookin’ at you, I-”

“Shhhh,” you whisper, husky, and this time he listens. “So just do that. Look at me. Look at my body. You love my body. Just nod, don’t answer.”

He nods.

“You love touching my body.” Nod. “You _want_ to touch my body.” Another nod. You cup your breast in one hand and lift it, slightly, accentuating the shape of it. “You _need_ to touch my body, don’t you?” Two and a half more nods. “You want to _fuck_ my body, don’t you?” A high-pitched whine escapes from his throat and several more nods continue to pour out of him. “You _need_ to fuck my body.” His frantic nods shake whimpers loose from his vocal cords. (There’s such _power_ in being so blunt like this, in stating the existence of your inner wants in such bold-faced, matter-of-fact terms. What it does to your lovers makes your nerves and arterioles hum like live wires, what happens on their faces and between their legs when you turn them inside out like this, take their lust for you and just place it in the open, obvious, blunt, impossible to ignore. It makes your underwear dampen and your breasts prickle with excitement.)

You squirt a few drops of water-based lube into one hand, and then reach down, to his waist, sliding your hand from your chest into Dave’s boxers, groping for the hardness of his dick. It’s so _warm,_ ramrod-straight, full of blood heated by his lust. “I feel so good, don’t I, Dave?” you whisper as you take him in your fingers. More almost panicked nods. “I know I do. I feel _so good_ around you, and this is just my hand,” you start to jack him, methodically, up and down, as you murmur, _“Imagine_ what I’m going to feel like when it’s my pussy, when you slide your dick right into me and just _fuck_ me…” You get his erection steadied and pointed straight up inside his shorts, so you can stroke him all the way the base to the glans, up and down, over and over. “Imagine me, imagine yourself, _fucking_ me,” you put _relish_ into the ‘vulgar’ words, say them with as much passion and gusto as you can, and you practically feel him _twitch_ in your hand as you enunciate.

His eyes are wide and utterly focused on you, you know that he can’t think of anything other than you now, and you hold up the pendant. This is the correct way to focus him for this; what you’re going to enchant Dave to do is an act of untrammeled, raw sexual expression, so it’s best that he be aroused while you’re inputting the commands. He needs to be totally focused on you and your body, so that he can most effectively hold it in his mind once you’ve put him in a trance.

The pendant is a small, circular disc of sterling silver, with a hexagonal lavender gem set in its face. It’s your own design - you did the magic, combining several different sources of power to produce the very specific effect you need, while Jade helped you with getting the materials and imbuing them with the esoteric properties you needed.

You start to dangle it in front of his face, directly between his eyes and your naked breasts. It’s a ridiculous cliche, yes, but it’s also a classic, and your research indicated that it would be useful in this scenario, for focusing him. The intensity of his focus on your body makes him that much more focused on the pendant, as you begin the spell and the purple spinel starts to glow with soft, white, light, casting a mesmerising glow across his view of you.

“Look at me,” you say, “and look at the light. Look at me, and look at the light.” He nods, but his nods are sluggish, like you had pressed play at half speed on his movement. “Just look at me, look at my body, and at the light. We are all you can see. Just look at my body, look at the light, look at us, until you can’t see anything else.” You keep stroking him, slowly, smoothly, in time with your words, up and down, over and over, weaving an enchantment around his mind with your hand and your lips and your magic. “And as you look, as the light fills you up, and makes it so that you can’t see anything else, makes it so all you can see, all you can think about, is the light and me, you start to feel tired. You start to feel so tired, tired and sleepy for me. Do you feel yourself starting to drift?” He nods, languidly, as if the heaviest ropes in the world hung from his chin and cheeks. “Yes. You’re drifting, feeling so tired, so sleepy, so empty, because there’s nothing in your head, now, other than the light, is there? The light and I…”

Dave’s gaze is glassy and lidded, now. His mouth hangs slightly open, his body slumped down into the bedclothes. The burning coals of his eyes soak in the hypnotic light of the pendant. 

“Can you see anything?” you ask. Your words come out throatier than you intend them to. You are _very_ turned on by this whole proceeding, and you’d be kind of ashamed to admit how much the image of Dave captivated and helpless under your spell does for you. “Anything other than the light and I? He manages another sluggish, heroic effort, this time to tilt his head back and forth _no._ You can’t help but notice how his eyes move in his sockets as his head shifts, keeping his pupils focused directly on the pendant no matter the orientation of his skull. 

You are _so fucking wet._

Maybe this has other possibilities, later. But, no, Rose, stay on target. Finish the job. “Your mind is drifting in the light, now.” Another nod. “I’m going to count down from five, Dave, and when I say ‘one’, you’re going to close your sleepy eyes. But even when they’re closed, you’ll still be able to see the light on the inside of your eyelids, understand? You’ll still be floating, still be drifting, still be listening to me.”

The nod is _agonizingly_ slow. You’re so _close,_ now.

“Five,” you say. 

“Four.” His eyelids flutter. 

“Three.” They start to droop, his visual connection with the pendant still maintained, but he’s struggling, now.

“Two.” His face sags. Your heart feels like a hummingbird’s. You take a deep breath.

_“One.”  
_

* * *

**Dave: Drop.**

Like a stone, baby. Like an overloaded elevator with its cables cut. Like the line graph of the stock market in 1929.

It’s not a long drop, though, even if it’s lickety-split quick. You were already pretty low, cognitively speaking, the tenuous-ass thread connecting you and consciousness hanging all the way down almost to the ground. The infinite dreamy expanse of soft purple-white light that cushions you now like a nice, soft, gentle blanket, lighter than air, was probably just, like, a couple inches under your feet by the time Rose was finished bringing you under, so when she said ‘one’ you just sorta slipped in.

It’s … liberating. No room to think too hard, no room to be hard on yourself. No room to second-guess (or triple-guess quadruple-guess). No room to think about much of anything, really. There’s basically no room left in your brain. Rose has crowded all of it out, piped the light into it until it takes up everything, and just left you to float here and relax.

And the light is Rose, too. Her voice. Her eyes. Her body. Her body that you want to touch. That you want to fuck. You want to fuck her _so bad._ You can’t really be agitated, here, the light takes up all the room normally dedicated to that, too - but you are definitely still turned on, that has never stopped being a thing, you still feel your boner throbbing in between your legs, demanding - but the ability to move, the ability to act, to feel the need to act on anything, you don’t have that here. So it just pulses there, aching, needing, trapping you in a perpetual padded realm of arousal, enfolded in Rose’s voice and the sensation of her touch.

She’s talking. Her voice surrounds you. It’s like the air is made of it. It’s in your ears but it’s also in your mind, and in your skin and in your nerves. “When I say ‘perennial,’” she tells you, “you will go to sleep. When you awaken, you will know that the only thing that is important is that you find me, and fuck me.”

Your boner throbs a backbeat along with Rose’s words. They’re carving themselves into your soul. They aren’t instructions she’s giving you. They’re just facts. When she says that, you are going to go to sleep, and gravity pulls down, and grass is green, and swords and sharp, and when you wake up, you’re going to know that the only important thing is that you find her and fuck her. “And you aren’t going to hold back,” she says. “You will fuck me _hard._ You are going to fuck me until I can’t talk. You will use my pussy as an instrument for your own pleasure. When we have both orgasmed, you will return to your normal, conscious mind.” It’s true. That’s what you’re going to do. The words encode themselves in you and become true. “If at any point in this, I say the word ‘annual’, you will return to your conscious mind. You want me,” You want her. “You need me,” You need her, “You need to fuck me,” You need to fuck her. “You will fuck me when you awaken.”

You will fuck Rose when you awaken. That’s what will happen.

_“Perennial.”  
  
  
_

* * *

**  
Rose: Prepare.**  
  
****It feels like you’ve been preparing for _years_ now, Christ. Your boyfriend is difficult that way.  
  
****But now you’re here. Now it’s going to happen. You’re in the last lap, and the finish line is within sight.  
  
****You planned all of this out. You set an alarm - half an hour, that’ll do - and then leave your sweet, entranced Dave asleep on the bed so you can get ready.  
  
****You just need to do your necessaries. Go to the bathroom, brush your teeth, apply a little bit more lube, change into your most comfortable underwear. Or, do you want to do that? The possibilities start to unfold in your mind as you pad down the hall. You could just be completely naked. That’s kind of appealing - just being totally unclothed and vulnerable for him. But, you also kind of want to see what he’ll do in this state, if there’s fabric standing between him and you. How hard would he shove it out of the way? Would he _rip it off you?_ Oh, Kanaya would hate that, but you think you like that. You think you want your boyfriend to show that he wants you so much that he’ll tear your underwear clean off your body to get to you.  
  
****You check your messages briefly while you’re brushing your teeth. Kanaya is wishing you luck (she knows what you’re planning on doing tonight). Dirk is double-checking the time for your lunch together the day after tomorrow. You smirk fondly at the precision of his scheduling (“2:35 in my backyard to get our chow on.”). You think _very_ hard about putting on your sexiest lingerie - if there exist limits on the height to which you can drive your lovers’ desire for you, you haven’t found it yet, and you have no intention of ceasing your search - but at the _last_ minute you decide against it. Kanaya loves this pair. You love it, too, frankly. Which would make the gesture of Dave ripping it from your legs even more delicious, in a way - a sacrifice for the ritual of erotic fulfillment you’re performing here, and such a valuable one would surely boost its potency - but, you don’t know if it’s worth your matesprit’s disappointment.  
  
****(You almost do it anyway.)  
  
****As you’re putting on your nice-but-not- _that_ -nice undergarments and stockings, your phone jangles. It’s Roxy’s ringtone. “Yes?” You hold it up to your ear and secure it precariously with the press of your shoulder while you smooth creases out of your stockings. “My time is valuable, speak your purpose.”  
  
****“ELOHEL SOH-REE Rosie, jus’ saw y’were online on Pchum’n I wanted t’check up real quick,”  
  
****“Do you often stare at your Pesterchum contacts list waiting for me to show signs of life so that you can pounce on me?” You comment, idly, tracing the outline of your hip in the mirror. (You look _fine,_ as your dear parent-sibling would say.) “Do I command that much of your daily attention?”  
  
****“You know it, beebee,” Roxy giggles. “Always thinkin’ about my dead sexy best girl. But, that’s not pertinent to the point. I jus’ wanted to tell you the bad news for our girlz night, I can’t find a rip of the next season _anywhere_ online. We might be outta luck,”  
  
“Really?” You raise your eyebrows. “It’s even beyond the reach of _your_ computer skills?”  
  
****“I _KNOW,”_ they groan, “Y’can’t tell anyone, Rosie, but it’s just not out there, even I can’t DL somethin’ that doesn’t exist,”  
  
****“Isn’t that exactly what you can do?” You put the finishing touches on your enticing countenance and step back out into the hallway. Finished with plenty of time, sixteen minutes to go. “Isn’t that, in fact, the entire centerpiece of your collection of god tier powers?”  
  
****“...holy _shit_ Rose you’re so fuckin’ smart,”  
  
****“I do okay,” You sniff. “If it doesn’t exist anywhere, you should be able to conjure it.” You shut the bathroom door behind you. “We just have to hope that some collector somewhere doesn’t have a copy secreted away. Presumably an ancient VHS that he never watches, hidden in a vacuum-sealed vault full of mint-in-box action figures and limited edition cereal box mail-in rewards.”  
  
****Roxy makes a facetiously thoughtful _hmm_ ing sound. “I feel like I can picture this dude. He has a ponytail, right? And plaid shorts,”  
  
****You groan. “Yes, _exactly._ Damn, I think I’m getting invested in this character. We need to abort. Let’s just-”  
  
****A _squeak_ escapes from your lips, entirely beyond your control, as a phantom runs its nonexistent hands across your sides and down your legs. Every fine hair on your body stands up as a thrill ascends your body like a ladder. Your thighs twinge.  
  
****“Rosie??” Roxy’s alarmed voice barks out of the phone at you. But your brain is still freewheeling, cogs whirring with teeth failing to mesh as you try to process what you just felt, and you just manage to pull together enough neurons and face them in the same direction to open your mouth, when-

**  
Dave: Awaken.  
  
**You are _really really hard.  
  
  
_It really actually hurts you’re so erect, you must have been standing parade salute down there even before you woke up. It’s _unbearable.  
  
_“The knight is awake, your shit is e-wrecked,” you say to yourself as you open your eyes. The red interior of your dream room greets you, as always, tinted slightly dark. On the moon you always go to sleep with your shades on. Sensible, that. Not good on Derse to ever have your eyes uncovered, even if they’re closed. None of that’s important, though. What is important is that you find Rose and fuck her. It’s important that you find her, and that you fuck her until she can’t talk.  
  
“Well, I know where to look first,” you say, “Nine times outta ten I know what she’s gonna have her delicious dream-booty situated,” Does seem like kind of a weird thing for you to say, you reflect - when you’re awake on Derse you’re a lot more kinda chill and go-with-the-flow about what you say and how the stuff in your head gets out of your mouth, but that was kind of a _lot_ even for here. It seems dumb _not_ to say it, though. It’s just the truth. Rose’s booty is delicious, everything about her is delicious, and you’re going to fuck it. “Gonna fuck her,” you say to the air as you step out your window. “Gotta fuck her. _Need_ to fuck her,”  
  
The moon hurtles by below you as you set off into the sky, while above you far away is Derse itself. The city slash planet is alive with its usual brand of night-time activity (it’s obviously always night, here, it just varies between ‘night’ and ‘slightly darker night’). They aren’t the loud sounds of a city you’d travel through while awake, with car horns and people shouting and talking to one another. Derse is alive - it’s motherfucking _vibrant,_ you might even say - but it’s alive quietly. They don’t have cars and if they did they wouldn’t honk, and they do all their business in whispers. No one on Derse wants to attract the attention of anything higher up on the food chain than them, all the way on up the people in charge, who keep their heads pointed down at the planet they rule with their iron mob boss fists, and determinedly don’t look up at the sky.  
  
You understand and sympathize with this position entirely, even if you aren’t super down with many other elements of Derse behavior. Looking up at the sky is a bad idea. Something might look back. The only place on Derse where stargazing happens with any kind of regularity is in the tower up ahead, the counterpart to yours, the one where the girl you have to fuck resides, whose pussy you’re going to use as an instrument for your own pleasure. On any other occasion you might take a moment to disdainfully appreciate how she added a goddamn _telescope_ to her dream tower, to make it _easier_ for her to shovel those big heaping jumbo scoops of horrorterror mojo right into her eyeballs as efficiently as possible. You might _also_ be kinda self-conscious about the tent in your pants just sort of jutting out impudently in your d-zone. (Your erection is not going away. It’s good that you can fly - you need to fuck her so bad you’re not sure if you could walk.) But tonight none of that is important to you. There’s only one thing that’s important, which is that you find Rose and fuck her. You can’t hold back at all. You’re going to fuck her until she can’t talk.  
  
Her room is gloomy as ever as you float up to her window. You peer into the eerie violet glow that fills her tower, though, and there she is, asleep on her bed. You step inside. Your pants slide down around your ankles smooth and easy. They’re easy to manage like that. This stuff just kinda works when you’re dreaming. You kick them away as you climb onto her bed.  
  
  
She’s curled up on her stomach, like a cat, face resting on the backs of her hands. She looks so pretty, there. So graceful. So alluring. So fucking sexy, just laying there and letting you look at her, letting your eyes eat up the sight of her. The way her eyelashes fall across her face with her eyelids closed. Her lips, smooth and peaceful, none of their usual sassy quirk or careful arrangement. The shape of her body, laid out on her bedsheets’ loose leaf by a better sketch artist than you’ll ever be with long, lush curved lines, arches and semicircles that blend together in a way that makes your fingers want to sink themselves in, makes your aching pecker practically _scream_ at you to get between then.  
  
  
  
You have to fuck her. You’re going to fuck her until she can’t talk. You won’t hold anything back. You can’t _imagine_ holding anything back.  
  
Your hands reach down, roll her the rest of the way onto her front, drag her back until her legs are dangling off the bed. You yank her purple leggings down, shove them out of the way like a used wrapper. Your hands get a grip on her luscious full hips. Grasp full, thick handfuls of Rose’s wonderful soft plush rump. Push her extravagant creamy thighs apart until they’re wide open for you, the treasure in between them all the way revealed and ready for you.  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
You plunge your dick in between her haunches. You sink in and it’s _impossible_ how good it feels, how _right_ it feels, like it does every time you’re together, every time you’re inside her it feels like coming home. Karkat is your port in the storm, your tornado shelter, and being with him is the joy and the goodness and the safety that you’ve earned, that you labored and quested for and finally found after so many years of hard work - when you make one another feel good, it’s because you learned how, it’s the fruit of what you discovered and created together. But Rose is the scabbard for your sword, the factory-made form that you came in the shape of, when you touch one another it’s like electromagnetism pulling you together, and when you’re in her you feel perfect, two pieces that were made together and then divided up, and you’re bringing them back together again and restoring the natural order. You always feel this, but you’ve never expressed so _much_ of it.  
  


You wake up. Your eyes open to the lavender radiance of your dream room,  
and yourself bent over your bed, being fucked from behind, _hard._  
  
“Dave,” you pant, your dreamself’s lungs gasping for breath, “What-” You try to turn  
towards what you know are his sex noises behind you - but then his hand is on your head and  
pressing you down into the mattress. “Shh,” he groans, his legs still smacking quickly into the backs  
of your thighs, driving himself into you to the hilt, shocking you with how forcefully he handles you,  
‘I gotta fuck you till you can’t talk,”  
  
You try to inhale enough to say something, but you-

You wake up again. Your chin is pressed into the carpet. You’re on the floor. You have, as they say, Eaten Shit. You’re on your knees. Your ass is stuck embarrassingly in the air in a way that thoroughly suits the feeling that you’re being taken roughly over a couch armrest. Your brain tries, desperately, to arrange all the available data into a sequence that makes sense. There’s no cock inside you, it’s not there, your lips aren’t spread - but it feels like there is, utterly. You can feel the prick in your pussy and the spectral dream-hands on your body. “Hh, hhh,” you moan, uncontrollably into the carpeting. You - you fell, your grey matter attempts. It's so hard to think, “He’s, hhh, ohh, he’s, _he’s fucking my dreamself,”_ you gasp.  
  
"He touched my dreamself, so I-" Your brain is fogging over, the thoughts slipping through your fingers even as you arrange them because this feels so good, "I fell asleep, and th-then I - fell over, but then, when I hit the floor, it woke me back up, because - because-" The phantom dick on Derse just keeps going, keeps fucking you, making your body shudder and your hips and ass shake, "Because-" It takes everything you have to put the thought together, your mind is going completely fuzzy with the wet heat spreading from between your legs, “Because I - I told him to fuck me the next time he woke up, and - and then I put him to sleep, and _he woke up on Derse,”  
  
_ And then there's nothing else, you have no more thinking in you. There's nothing you can do because every thrust of your invisible partner's cock feels like it's pounding the neurons right out of your head and making them drip out of your pussy. You can't think, you can't talk in anything other than moans of rapture and desperation. For one moment the safeword crosses your mind. You hadn't even been that interested in including it, but your spellbook told you to in no uncertain terms - but surely there's no way you could use it, not unless you were asleep too...  
  
But even if you could draw breath to say it (which you can't) or if Dave could hear it (which he can't), you know, really, that you'd never give voice to it. Because this is what you wanted. You're still embarrassed sometimes by how much you love it, how much you love losing control, being just thrown down on the bed or the couch or the floor and _fucked,_ and this is even more embarrassing and _even hotter than usual_ , with you stuck in this vulnerable position with your ass aimed at the ceiling like an idiot.  
  
Your precarious, humiliating position isn’t able to withstand the motion of your hips trying to rut against the nonexistent lover behind you. You tip over onto the carpeting, quivering on your side. Your hands descend to fondle your breasts again, thumb and forefinger encompassing your aching nipple and _squeezing,_ trying to handle yourself as hard as he’s doing. But just as you set to it, you start to feel the sparking sensation of the phantasmal dream-touches arc onto them, too.  
  
Your head _swims._ Gravity seems to be pulling in several of the wrong directions at once. Your dreamself’s mind tugs insistently at your waking one, trying to come to full awareness of what’s happening to it. Weights pull down on your eyelashes, as heavy as the ones you affixed metaphorically to Dave’s when you were taking him under, and with each blink the soft violet of Derse shimmers on the backs of your eyelids like a mirage. You roll onto your back but the feeling and weight of him is too tangible against you, it feels wrong for there to be floor and carpeting there. You try to get up, your legs only barely cooperating - but you can’t make it to the wall. You just end up laid out on your stomach again, fondling yourself. He’s doing the same thing. You can feel him feeling you up at the same moment you feel yourself up. and you finally just stop fighting it.  
  
You _squeeze_ yourself, your hips rocking as you hump the air in time with his somnambulist’s thrusts, and you fall into a cadence that subsumes and immerses both your awake and dreaming selves, you and Dave, here and also far away, and you pleasure yourself together.  
  
Finally, it stops.  
  
  
But the stop is a bait-and-switch.You only have a handful of eternity-seconds in which to settle into the carpet - before you feel a presence, again, at the insides of your thighs, and then your slit starts to tingle, something teasing at the sides of your opening.  
  
The sensation suddenly bubbles up and overwhelms you completely as Dave’s ghostly dream-attention is focused entirely on your pussy, stroking and caressing your most sensitive parts. The sparkling firefly feeling crawling across your skin suddenly deepens and suffuses your body.  
  
All at once, it concentrates itself, all the sensation gathering between your legs, collecting in the pool of your clit - and then, at last, it surges too high to be contained. Your needy, overstimulated body loses its ability to encompass your arousal and the pressure between your legs releases.

Your grip on Rose's kisser is firm, but reverent. Loving. Because you do love her. She's gone limp in your arms again. Back to sleep. But that's fine. Doesn't affect anything. Still gotta fuck her. You don't think anything could make you stop, now, unless she said the word. You always feel this, but you’ve never expressed so much of it. You always feel like Rose is the scabbard for your sword, like you were always meant to be together like this. You were born together, mixed in the same test tube, and you died together, and all this is is being honest. And this is the most honest you've ever felt.  
  
  
  
Usually it feels like there's something wrong with wanting her. There's a million bullshit reasons why, you could throw three darts at your psyche and hit three bullshit reasons why you feel bad for wanting what you want - because you're 'related,' because it'll screw things up between you, because it'll screw things up between her and Kanaya, because it'll screw things up between you and Karkat, because you're not gay enough, because she's too gay, pick a fuckin' reason, they're all shit, and they're all gone. None of them are in your head, they're nowhere to be found, you love her and you want her and that's all there is. That's all that matters.  
  
You sink your digits into Rose's flanks, grip her hard enough to mark (usually that bothers you, not now) and roll your hips against hers like pistons, you need every fuckin' molecule of that hot wet friction in her vag, in, out, in, out, in, out - not as fast as you can, that makes it suck, but a quick, hard, methodical rhythm, in, out, tick, tock, that's right, your dick runs like a clock, you're Dave Strider in the place to be, and that place is Rose's sex dreams and inside her puss-y, you look down at her through the haze of lust and love laying over your eyes as much as your shades. She's sprawled out on the bed, hair wild, band cock-eyed, eyes closed and mouth open, drool on her bedsheets. She's disheveled and messed up and coming apart in her sleep and you love her so much.  
  
You bend down over her. It doesn’t do your angle any favors, but you want more of her. Your hands slide up her sides and lift her up off the bed. Her head bobs limply. It makes her shake backwards and forwards as you pound into her, instead of just laying steady on the bed, has its own kind of appeal. You stick your arms up under her dream-jammies and grab her tits in both hands, _god_ you love Rose’s tits, you cannot get enough of her knockers, you get two really nice handfuls of her funbags and just give ‘em a good _tenderizing,_ you spend a few thrusts just taking your time to appreciate how her gazombos feel in your hands. Soft and spongy but not _too_ soft. You kinda want to fuck those, too, just stick your tommy gun in between her Boston henchmen and start really sharking some loans. But you won’t. That’s not what’s happening right now. Right now you’re using her pussy for your own pleasure.  
  
And it’s pleasure, alright. It’s a gorgeous, _perfect_ fuckin’ pussy, gorgeous and perfect just like everything about Rose, it fits your dick like a glove. “God you feel so good,” you mumble into Rose’s neck, “You feel _so_ good, God I love you, I love your pussy, I love your boobs,” you give them an extra squeeze, “I love your mouth, even though it can’t talk, ‘cause I’m fuckin’ you ‘till you can’t talk. I love how loud you are when we fuck, next time maybe you oughtta be awake for this part so I can hear you scream. God, Rose, I’d love to fuck every part of you, I’d fuck your ass, I’d fuck your mouth, I’d fuck your boobs, _Christ_ would I love to fuck your boobs, let’s do that next time, when I’m not using your pussy for my own pleasure, _fuck_ I fuckin’ love you so much, and I love _fuckin’_ you so much,”  
  
  
You’ve only got so much left in you, even in dreams - being so up-front and direct like this, no waffling, no holding back, it’s impossible to ignore. Her pussy just _sucks_ the orgasm out of you, makes it a foregone conclusion, inevitable as a closed loop, and you whisper her name like a prayer into her sleeping ear as you come.  
  
You take a sec.  
  
Okay, a few secs. You’re only human. But only a few secs. Then you get down and push your face in between her legs.

* * *

The dream-touches finally fade, for real this time, leaving only the apparitions of those sensations on the surface of your skin. There’s nothing in your quim, there never was - but the orgasm was real, the ruddiness and rugburn on your stomach and chest is real. You haul yourself up against the wall, trying to breathe and let your heart rate wind back down.

Is Dave still asleep? You can’t hear anything from the bedroom that you never made it to. Is he still just … there, on Derse with your fucked-silly, slumbering dreamself? Has his physical body come, too, as his dreamself must have just relieved itself inside your dream-pussy? You came, why shouldn’t he? Was it just like a wet dream for him?

Once you regain some small portion of the use of your legs, you intend to go in there and find the answers to all of these questions. If he didn’t get release in the waking world, you’ll definitely be giving it to him, because you got what you wanted. It didn’t quite happen the way you planned or expected, but it was _wonderful._ You’re going to _have_ to make sure Dave was fully okay with this and actually do it correctly next time. If just a single glimpse and the phantom touches of him in his enchanted, uninhibited state was like _this,_ what will actually being with him in the wakeful flesh be like-

“ROSIE” You hear what is almost certainly the front door to your house exploding off of its hinges. There’s a thumping and a Texan-accented series of profanities from the bedroom.

“Rose? Rosie?!” Roxy’s voice bawls from downstairs, and then they storm up to the second floor with a Goddamned assault rifle trained on the hallway, because they heard you cut off mid-conversation crying out and moaning, so what the hell conclusion were they _supposed_ to have come to? Their eyes alight on you and they lower their weapon in confusion, as Dave stumbles out of the bedroom door, completely buck ass naked.

“I swear to God I can explain,” you say.

“The explanation doesn’t make this any less weird,” Dave says, and flees back into the guest room and slams the door behind him, abandoning you with your mutual ectobiological mother, slumped against the wall, flushed and sticky in your sexy underwear.

If you didn’t love him so much right now, you’d be trying to kill him.

**Author's Note:**

> Your friendship means the world to me, Laura. I'm sorry again for taking so damn long to finish this after your birthday, you deserve better - but at the very least, I'm extremely pleased to have something like this be my 4/13 offering. Here's to however many more Goddamned years of this fucking webcomic that we all love, and as many more years of these two nerds loving one another as we have in us.
> 
> Thanks also to @caledfwlchthat for keeping me appraised of birthday dates and inspiring me to start writing this - both for its own sake, and because when I first started working on this a few months ago I was going through a very rough place, emotionally, and writing this fic made those few days so much more bearable, and I have you to thank for that.


End file.
